All The Right Words
by ameliagianna
Summary: Repost. Songfics. Oneshots unless stated otherwise. T to be safe.
1. When The Lights Go Out

"_See the moon, see the stars_

_From your lonely seat in lonely cars_

_You can be, oh, so mean_

_I just can't see no in between_

_You know what the sun's all about_

_When the lights go out"_

_-The Black Keys_

"Olivia."

She refused to turn, refused to let herself acknowledge the presence next to her. Her eyes stayed on the road, watching the asphalt illuminated by her headlights.

"Olivia, look at me."

"No." Her answer is short, solid. But she still wants to comply, to see him and feel him.

"You can't ignore me forever, you know. I'll just keep coming back." She can't see it, but she hears the smirk in his tone. He's right, and he knows it.

"I'm driving," she blurts, desperate for an excuse, something to get him to leave her alone. Even just for a little while. "You're distracting me."

He doesn't reply, and she lets herself glance at the passenger seat. Empty.

She heaves a sigh of relief. Her eyelids droop slightly, the exhaustion of the busy day finally creeping in. She manages to get herself home, but she knows she'll collapse into bed the second she enters the apartment.

She turns off the ignition of the SUV, and lets her head fall against the steering wheel.

"Okay, you're not driving." The voice makes her jump, shooting up straight in her seat. She turns, seeing him now.

"What are you doing, trying to give me a heart attack?" she shouts, her voice reverberating through the vehicle.

"No, just trying to help you see the truth." His voice is smug, but she can't help that her heart pounds when he appears to her.

"What truth?" she asks, knowing the answer but insisting on denial for as long as possible.

"That you are not from this world. That you need to go home," he says, and leans in towards her over the center console. "That you belong with me."

She scoffs, unable to fabricate a response but not wanting him to have the last word.

He turns out of her gaze, and glances up and out of the windshield. "The stars look different here," he says quietly. "The moon, too. They seem farther away, somehow."

She looks where he does and finds herself agreeing with him, but says nothing.

She turns back to watch him again, taking in every detail of him. She won't admit it, but she does feel the love for this man that he so often speaks of. She understands how she could fall in love with him, his rugged charm and wicked sense of humor, and his complete and utter insistence on their belonging together. She would never tell, but she savors their meetings, however sparse they may be.

But, maybe, he already knows all that.

When his eyes meet hers, she is struck, as she always is and always will be, by how blue his irises are. The color of the sea, frozen with flecks of smoky gray and a ring of green just around the edges.

A memory floods her, one that doesn't belong.

"_Ninety-two percent of Caucasian newborns have blue eyes. Yours were green."_

Peter smiles, as if she'd said it aloud. "See, you remember something. He leans in more, and Olivia swears she can feel his warm breath hovering over her lips. "You remember me."

And then he kisses her, soft and gentle, and she leans in to kiss him back. She closes her eyes and loses herself in the contact, simple but weighted with something deeper.

She feels his hand on her cheek, a warm palm she knows isn't there but damn it, she'll enjoy it while she can. Their lips break apart, but not far. His hand brushes up, tucks some of her red hair behind the crook of her ear. "You remember me," his voice whispers, echoing in her mind over and over again.

When she opens her eyes, she's leaned over towards the very empty passenger seat.

She sighs again, this time more of disappointment or longing. She climbs out of the car and heads in the direction of her apartment.

When she's inside, she walks the familiar path to her bedroom and flicks on the lamp beside her bed. Her eyes scan the room, finding it recognizable enough. She undresses at a leisurely pace, content to sleep only in her underwear.

Sliding under the covers, she clicks off the lamp and stares into the black nothingness of her ceiling. She'll dream of him tonight, almost guaranteed. And, not for the first time, she'd be content if the sun happened not to come up.


	2. Everything In Its Right Place

"_Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon_

_Everything…In its right place_

_There are two colors in my head…"_

-Radiohead

Of all the things in the alternate universe, only one thing seemed the same, and for that he was grateful.

Alcohol. Though slightly more expensive, it was worth it on this particular night. His first conscious night in his birthplace, and all Peter really wanted was to get wasted.

It was all just too much. He missed Olivia, he missed his own bed. Hell, he even missed the lab.

And overthinking the fact that he had left it all behind, _permanently_ now, made him want to erase it from his mind. At least for a little while.

And that he did.

He woke the next morning, head pounding and vision blurry, the hangover he had inflicted on himself a sort of punishment. If last night was about forgetting, this morning was about remembering.

An old Bishop cure for hangovers popped in his head. Well, an old Bishop remedy from the other universe. The one in which he was raised, but not born.

Lemons, that's all he needed.

He rummaged through the tiny kitchenette and didn't find one. And then he remembered how his mother told him fruit was sparse here. A small fortune was needed to buy any.

A small fortune his father happened to have.

One call to the courtesy desk downstairs had one on the way, no questions asked.

As he waited, he stood out on the balcony and watched as new sights and new people buzzed below him. A zeppelin passed, and his eyes didn't leave it until it flew out of his view.

There was a brisk knock at the door, and it opened to reveal a man. Well-dressed and about Peter's age. He handed over the bright yellow object without a word.

Peter whispered "Thank you" and closed the door on the man's fake smile.

Back in the kitchenette, he pulled open a drawer full of knives. He selected the sharpest one, and sliced the lemon in half across the wide middle.

Tossing the knife into the metal sink with a careless clanging, he placed one of the yellow halves in the empty refrigerator.

The other half, he picked up and held firmly in the palm of his hand. Bracing himself, he brought it to his mouth and sucked, the sour on his lips and tongue sending waves of a new pain to his brain.

He pulled it away, waiting until the feeling passed, and then repeated. He did this until the lemon was sucked dry, everythime he thought of a difference between the two worlds.

It made it hurt more, but that's what he wanted. Last night he dismissed it all, this morning he would fell it all, and for the rest of his miserable life, he would simply accept it all.


	3. Black and White People

_One boy, headstrong_

_He thinks that living here's just plain_

_He's pushed down so hard_

_You can hear him start to sink_

-Matchbox Twenty

* * *

"_This is it, Olivia. Last one._"

Peter reflected over his words. He was growing anxious, being in Boston. He felt like he couldn't sit still, his hands shaking restlessly. Playing the piano helped, but as soon as he stopped, it returned.

He didn't know where he would go. Away, he supposed, from Boston. Maybe even out of the U.S. altogether, maybe back to Iraq to finish that job.

No, not Iraq. Greece, maybe. Athens. Seemed as good a place as any.

Walter was off in the lab, humming something. Peter didn't even care enough to try and identify the tune.

His hands trembled in his lap, his legs tingling.

He needed out, now.

A walk around campus couldn't hurt. A temporary fix for his jitters.

He stood from his stool and approached Astrid. She was shorter than Peter, even more so now as she hunched over some files. She didn't look up at him, but cut him off before he could speak.

"Go. You're practically shaking. Just take your phone, in case." She flipped a page, still reading. As if hadn't even been there.

He figured he wouldn't argue. He grabbed his jacket—and phone—and left the lab.

And he walked. He didn't care where. He willed his feet to move onwards, stopping only when necessary.

He wished he had some music. He hummed to himself for a few moments, but after being on the receiving end of several awkward looks, he quieted. Instead, he pictured his hands playing on the black and white keys of the piano. It calmed him, slightly.

He kept walking until a sound came from his pocket, the incessant chirping of his cell phone.

He pulled it out of his pocket, it was a call.

He let it go to voicemail. A few seconds later, a little message popped up on his screen and he pressed a button to listen to it.

It was Astrid, assuring him that everything was fine but that Walter was worried, and requesting a can of grape soda. His father could be heard in the background.

He saved the message, but didn't know why.

When he looked up from his patch of sidewalk, he was surrounded by dark skies and empty streets. He checked the time to find he'd been walking for several hours.

He glanced up at a street sign, the name wasn't familiar.

He walked a little further until he found a bar. Ducking inside, he was greeted by something country and garbled coming from an ancient jukebox and the distinct smell of cigarettes, sweat, and vomit.

It was a dive bar, but a bar nonetheless.

He took an empty seat at the long, wooden counter away from a group of regulars and a lone man nursing what looked like his fifth or sixth beer.

He ordered a beer and took a swig. Without looking he knew the brand, something cheap but not terrible.

His hand wandered to his pocket and he found himself staring at Olivia's name on his screen with his thumb on the 'call' button.

He really didn't feel like walking home, he lied.

He let his thumb press the little green button and pulled the phone to his ear.

Ring once. Twice.

"_Dunham_."

"Hey, it's Peter," he started.

"_What's up?_"

He sighed. "You busy?"

"_Paperwork. Why?_"

"I…uh…" he tried to word it simply, "I went for a walk and kind of got lost."

"_Oh._"

"Could you come get me?"

"_Where are you?_"

"A bar on Cordial. And Everglan, I think."

"_Be there in 20._"

She hung up, and he was left with buzzing silence.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he settled into his chair and drank his beer.

* * *

When she arrived, walking in and settling herself in the seat next to him, the bartender approached.

"Anything?"

"Whiskey."

He nodded and moved away.

Peter finished his second beer. "What's up?" he mimicked.

"I'm wondering how someone with a 190 IQ and born in Massachusetts gets lost in Boston."

"It's not hard if you're not trying," he mumbled.

The barman returned with a fresh beer and Olivia's drink.

She had half of it down before he had even reached for his bottle.

"Okay," he whispered.

"So, where to next?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You said this is the last one, so what comes after?"

He sips at his beer and sighs. "I don't know."

"You don't have a plan?" she teases, and takes a drink.

"Nope."

"Oh."

They sit in uncomfortable silence, Peter picking at the label of his bottle and Olivia running her finger along the rim of her glass.

She finishes her whiskey and drops the glass to the bar. "Come on," she says, standing and pulling her jacket around her.

Peter takes a final swig of his beer and slaps some money on the bar, following her out.


	4. Every Single Night

"_Every single night, I endure the flight of little wings of white-flamed butterflies in my brain."_

* * *

The bottle of Jack was merely a formality at this point, the wine having seeped into her blood and taken root at the base of her skull. The fruity, less invasive alcohol always made more of an impression on her than the burning sweetness of hard liquor.

She settled back on the couch and closed her eyes, trying desperately to hold back a single tear threatening to fall but failed, the wet trail it left on her cheek almost more painful than the emotion that caused it. Almost.

* * *

"_These ideas of mine percolate the mind, trickle down my spine, swarm the belly, swelling to a blaze."_

* * *

Her throat was raw with unsung screams of pain and her body ached with something she'd never felt but could immediately identify. The wine was making her thoughts swim, her mind wandered to him and her core burned in response.

The pain was not what it should be, could have been. The night was ringing in her ears and even with her eyes closed she could still see the glowing, residual energy that meant her downfall.

* * *

"_That's when the pain comes in like a second skeleton, trying to fit beneath the skin, I can't fit the feelings in."_

* * *

She hadn't spoken much, she realizes. He had done most of the talking, and probably had tried to engage her.

Another tear falls.

The night will be long with her broken questions and long-reserved acceptance of feeling something, only to have it pulled out from under her and throw her on her back, defenseless. She had felt the concrete collide with her spine when she turned and saw him, her heart going from jumping-jacks in her chest to rock-solid in her throat.

* * *

"_Every single night's alight with my brain."_

* * *

Is this what it all comes down to?

Fuck it, let's have some more Jack.

* * *

"_What'd I say to her? Why'd I say it to her? What does she think of me, that I'm not what I ought to be? That I'm what I try not to be?"_

* * *

How could she work with him every day? How could she even think of him without that damn gold aura just taunting her?

He's not of her world, he's not hers to have. His origins belie the truth: He is not meant to be with her.

* * *

"_It's got to be somebody else's fault, I can't get caught."_

* * *

And—oh, god—don't tell him. Don't tell him, please. She couldn't, she wouldn't. She doesn't even know what to tell him, what she would even say. How could she tell him with no context, no explanation, no reasoning?

* * *

"_If what I am is what I am 'cause I does what I does, then brother, get back, 'cause my breast's gonna bust open."_

* * *

This is worse than any heartbreak. Worse than death.

How does she go on? Should she? Could she just end it all, right now? Call him up and just casually inform him that she ruined their date because he's from another universe?

Was it even a date?

* * *

"_The rib is the shell and the heart is the yolk, and I just made a meal for us both to choke on."_

* * *

Oh, he had to go on and try that. He almost kissed her. And as much as she wanted to comply, wanted to just give in and—finally—let herself want him, she didn't. Because she's still a damn soldier, having to go and do the right thing.

She saved hundreds of lives only to lose the one that matters most. She's lost him, or, rather, the life she could have had with him.

* * *

"_Every single night's a fight with my brain."_

* * *

Hell, let's have some more Jack. Bottle's only half full, anyway.

* * *

"_I just want to feel everything."_

* * *

She still feels his hands on her cheeks, the phantom warmth of his rough fingers caressing her skin, tucking a loose strand of hair behind the crook of her ear. She still tastes his breath on her lips and it's sweet, too sweet, and makes her want more than just proximity.

He should've just kept going. She should've just kept going. Maybe none of this would've happened. Maybe they'd be back here, in her bed, being together and loving it.

Something deep inside her stirs and she sniffles, another tear sliding down her cheek. She curls into herself incrementally more, and takes a long swig from the bottle.

* * *

"_So I'm gonna try to be still, now, gonna renounce the mill in a little while."_

* * *

She pulls her legs against her chest and rests her head on her knees. She doesn't know how, but she has an urge to call him. She wants to hear his voice, feel him without seeing him, without seeing that beautiful but damning ring of light.

She knows she won't. Call him, that is. She still wants him to be there. Maybe he'd come over and she could let him have her. She could close her eyes, ignore it. She wants to know what it feels like to have his lips on hers, his chest pressed against hers, his weight on top of her.

But if she's going to have him, she wants all of him. Not one night clouded with alcohol and pain.

* * *

"_And if we had a double king-sized bed we could move in it and I'd soon forget that I am what I am 'cause I does what I does, and maybe I'd relax, let my breast shot bust open."_

* * *

She wants to wake up next to him every day, she wants his arms around her in bed, she wants his silly, goofy grin in the middle of the day just because. She wants his patient mind and listening ear after a bad day, she wants his hand to not move away after he touches or brushes her.

She wants to be with him, but he doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong with her. Maybe with another version of her, but not this her.

* * *

"_My heart's made of parts of all that's around me and that's why the devil just can't get around me."_

* * *

This isn't his fault, she supposes. He doesn't know. That's not something he could keep to himself, not anymore. He would have known she could see it.

This isn't her fault, either. She didn't bring him over, she didn't give herself drugs as a child to make her see beyond this world. She couldn't have known.

This is all because of one man, and he's got a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

"_Every single night's alright, every single night's a fight, and every single fight's alright with my brain."_

* * *

But, for now, she'd like a bath and to finish off this bottle. The warm water and Jack won't make it go away, not remotely, but it makes it almost tolerable. Almost.

* * *

"_I just want to feel everything."_

* * *

**(A/N: Song is by Fiona Apple. Different setup than my others, but I like it.)**


	5. Walking With A Ghost

"_No matter which way you go_

_No matter which way you stay_

_You're out of my mind_

_I was walking with a ghost."_

-Tegan and Sara

* * *

Floating.

That's what it felt like, floating. She had no solid form; she was only an ethereal light forever floating.

Until she felt a hand—her hand, encased in another. The other hand was large and firm, warm between her fingers.

The rest of her body followed. Her hand led to an arm, a shoulder led to a neck, a chest led to a beating heart, her blood pumped outwards to her sudden extremities. It reminded her of the song about bones.

"_The back bone's connected to the hip bone. The hip bone's connected to the leg bone. The leg bone's connected to the foot bone…_"

But nothing felt as good as her hand in another's. She turned, and her new eyes found him.

He was beautiful. Like herself, he was both ethereal and solid, his brilliant blue eyes accented by the sheen of gold surrounding him. It was an aura, and somehow its presence was both comforting and frightening.

Who was this man, this wondrous contradiction, holding her hand?

She gained feeling in her feet, and realized that she was walking. They were walking, hand in hand.

He turned to look at her and smiled, the grin making her heart pound harder and faster and her knees weak.

"Who are you?" she asked before she realized she had control of her mouth.

The smile faded. "I don't know," he admitted, looking down sadly.

"Where are we?" She turned her head in several directions, but saw nothing but a color that had no name.

"I don't know that, either." He had been looking, too. They found each other's gaze again, seeking a familiar sight.

She smiled softly. "Well, what do you know?"

"I know that I love you." The way he said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world, made her stomach jump. But in a good way, like butterfly wings against her insides.

"I love you, too." And, suddenly, it was the only thing she was sure of.

They continued walking. They had no destination. They never grew tired or bored. They only needed the feeling of each other's presence.

But as they walked, things became visible around them. People, places, cars. They felt clothes grow on their naked bodies from nothing. The man's thumb unconsciously rubbed over the spot on his left ring finger where a wedding band would sit. She felt something sitting in the back of her mind, at the base of her skull, but didn't know what it was.

She had a thought. "This is a dream, isn't it?"

He nodded, squeezing her hand tenderly.

"Are you real?" she asked, afraid of the answer.

"Yes. No. Neither. Both." He spoke softly to her, but his words were full of seriousness.

"_Real is just a matter of perception_," she quoted, and he nodded again.

"Yes, I am real. No, I do not exist, not presently. Neither, because I no longer have a solid form, only consciousness. Both, for the same reason."

"Where are you?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Neither here nor there. In between the universes. Maybe even in another one altogether."

"Why?" she pleaded. "What happened?"

"I was removed. If there was a reason, I don't know it."

They stopped talking for a long time. Eventually, their walking brought them to a familiar place: a large room with a large machine. She could see a woman at the base, looking up at the man within.

It was them.

The man in the machine opened his eyes and found the woman.

"Peter," she called.

"Olivia," he said quietly. "You're alive."

The scene before them started to fade. When it was gone, she turned to look at him. The nameless color had returned, and she didn't like it much.

He looked sad. "You won't remember this. And, I suppose, neither will I."

She squeezed his hand tight, refusing to let go. Maybe she could keep him here, maybe she could will them to stay.

He squeezed back, and leaned in towards her. Even as the feeling was fading from her feet and legs, she could feel his breath on her lips before they kissed. His presence was dissipating, and she fought to keep him grounded, keep herself grounded.

The last thing she felt was his hand around hers, and then she was floating again.

When Olivia woke, she her eyes opened and she sat up in bed.

He was wrong. She wouldn't forget, not entirely.

From then on, whenever she closed her eyes, she saw a man with brilliant blue eyes.

* * *

**(A/N: It's been a while. I've had things typed, but I forget to post them. I'm working on it, but with school starting again on Tuesday, I don't know how this is all going to work around my homework schedule. I'll try, I promise. I'm always writing in my mind.)**


	6. Brick by Boring Brick

"_She lives in a fairytale_

_Somewhere too far for us to find,_

_Forgotten the taste and smell_

_Of a world that she's left behind."_

_-Paramore_

* * *

Peter remembers floating.

He has insisted on going in Olivia's mind. If anyone had any chance of navigating her mind, it would be him—though he doesn't say this.

Walter argued and argued. "It's too dangerous, son."

But he had finally convinced Walter that he would be fine. After all, they had done the process before, with Olivia and John.

So, with Olivia in her bed, Peter would get in the tank.

The doctors claimed she was brain-dead. But Peter refused to believe it.

Convincing Broyles to check her out of the hospital had actually been easier than getting Walter to agree to the procedure.

"If she's still in there, bring her back," he had said.

* * *

He hadn't realized how much that stupid probe would _hurt_.

But, luckily, the drugs begin to kick in and the pain dulls.

He gets in the tank.

And floats.

* * *

When Peter opens his eyes, he's at the door of Olivia's apartment.

So he knocks.

But no one answers. He reaches for the doorknob, which turns easily in his hand.

The door swings open almost of its own volition, and he steps inside.

"Olivia?" he calls.

He is met by a small child running towards him. The girl hides behind his leg and sobs softly.

He turns around and crouches down. "Hey," he whispers. "What's wrong?"

"He's coming," she whimpers.

"Who's coming?"

Before she can answer, the little girl looks up and her watery eyes widen. Peter turns back and sees a man pounding towards them.

"Don't let him hit her!" another voice calls. It belongs to another girl, a few years older. She disappears down a hall.

Peter has little time to think. He grabs the little girl and picks her up.

The man sees this and looks angry and confused. He swings at Peter with a closed fist.

Peter manages to block his first blow, but with the girl in his arms he is only able to turn away from the second, which strikes his shoulder.

The pain reverberates through his arm and he stumbles backwards.

He hears a gunshot and the man screams in pain.

There's another and the man falls to the ground. Peter turns and sees the older girl holding the gun with steady hands. She looks up at him.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she asks.

"Olivia, it's me. Peter."

"Peter?" she asks. She recognizes the name, but she doesn't recognize him.

The small girl in Peter's arms whimpers again.

"It's okay. He's gone now," Olivia says.

But Peter knows this story. He's not. He has to pull her back to reality.

"Olivia, what year is it?"

"2009."

"And where are you?"

"In my apartment."

He blinks, and there's the Olivia he knows, gun still in hand. He's suddenly unsure if she had ever looked different, if the young version of her was his imagination or drugs or…something.

The man on the floor is gone as well.

"Peter, give her to me."

She tucked her gun in its holster and holds her arms out for the girl.

He looks at her, confused and unsure of everything he knows.

"I said give her to me."

He obeys.

She hitches the girl on her hip like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Olivia, you're in a coma."

She laughs dryly. "Peter, don't be silly. I'm right here."

He blinks again, but nothing changes. He tries again, but the scene before him sticks.

"What's your name?" she asks the little girl, wiping a tear from the girl's rosy cheek.

"Olive," she says softly.

Olivia's smile falls, and she looks back at Peter. She pauses, as if trying to remember something.

"He gave me a message," she says.

"What?"

"_Na einai kalytero anthropo apo ton patera toy_," the little girl recites.

"What did you just say?" Peter asks.

Olivia screams.

* * *

**A/N: This sucks, I know. This has been killing me forever, and I just decided to start from scratch and this is the result. Blegh. Unwilling is being stubborn. All my stories are kind of pissing me off right now. My writer's block is apparently on steroids. Reviews even though it's super bad?**


	7. Classy Girls

"_But classy girls don't kiss in bars, you fool."_

_ -'Classy Girls' by The Lumineers_

* * *

Peter walked in, soaking up the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. A quick scan of the bar proved fruitful, the flash of golden blonde in a back booth his prize.

He approaches, sliding off his jacket and tossing it into his booth. Still standing, he bows. With a grin, he says, "Hello, how do you do?"

She rolls her eyes at him, but smiles nonetheless. She pushes a bottle of beer in his direction, a kangaroo staring at him from the label. He drinks from it gratefully.

"What's up?" he asks, sitting down.

* * *

"No way," he says.

She nods, takes a sip. "Twice."

"When?"

"Uh," she looks away in thought, "April of '96, Spring Break. And again in '98." She smiles. "What? You've never been?"

"Surprisingly, no. But I want to go someday."

"Maybe I'll take you sometime," she teases.

* * *

A new song comes over the speakers and several couples get up and form a dance floor in the middle of the bar.

Peter sees this and stands, holds his hand out to Olivia. "Dance with me?"

"No."

He laughs. "Come on, just one song."

She looks from the other couples to his hand. With a final sip of her beer, she sighs and takes his hand.

* * *

Three songs later, they're still dancing. The song is a little faster than their dance, but no one seems to notice.

His hands on her waist, his fingers toy with the hem of her shirt.

Her arms around his neck, she tells him to stop.

"Why?" he asks quietly.

"Do I need a reason?" she teases.

He shrugs.

"Exactly."

He smirks. "I thought you said one song."

"_You_ said one song," she says. Her smile is all he sees.

"I must be one hell of a dancer if I get four songs out of you."

Her playful smile wavers and she drops her arms. "Let's go back to the booth."

They do. She takes a sip of her lukewarm beer and says, "Thanks…for this. I needed a night off."

They're standing at the end of their table, and he's close. So close she can smell the bitter alcohol on his breath.

Something draws him closer to her lips. "Olivia…" he whispers.

She turns her head down, rolling her empty bottle in her hands. But she's smiling, blushing even.

"Do you want another?" he asks.

"No."

"Can I walk you to your car, then?"

She grins beautifully. "Okay."

He nods at her and they both grab their coats.

* * *

Outside, beside her car, she stops.

"Hey, Peter?" she asks quietly.

"Yeah," he says.

She leans in quickly and presses her lips to his. It's a short, simple kiss that's over too soon.

"I don't kiss in bars," she whispers, and walks away. "See you later," she calls over her shoulder.

He stands on the sidewalk and watches her drive away.

* * *

**A/N: AU, pre-Season 3. This fic is the product of my recent obsession with the Lumineers. Expect another at a later (or sooner) date. Remember, reviews are good for the soul!**


	8. Calls Me Home

"_In the quiet moment when the Earth holds still_

_I'm coming home to breathe again, to start again_

_I'm coming home from all the places I have been_

_With nothing but a voice within that calls me…calls me home."_

_- 'Calls Me Home' by Shannon LaBrie_

* * *

He didn't know when he decided, just that he did. And when he realized, when he knew, he could hear her voice in the back of his mind, asking him to come home.

The moment he saw her was the first time he breathed since the day their daughter was taken.

Her hair was longer. Not by much, but he could tell. It hung down her back nearly to her waist. It was still damp from her shower that morning. As she walked from her car, she watched the ground with her shoulders hunched—she also looked skinnier, her work clothes looser than he remembered around her already petite frame.

She saw him and her eyes widened, lit up like the night that seemed so long ago.

Then suddenly they were both running, across the parking lot at a sprint. His arms closed around her and they collided, a mess of arms and lips and hands. They kissed with a fervor neither had felt in the several months they were separated. She ran her hands into his hair and he held her face close.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

"No," she murmured back to him. "No, don't be."

He gripped her tighter. "Home," he whispered into her neck. "Let's go home."

"Home," she repeated.

* * *

The day he says "I found her," Olivia leaves work early and they drive nearly four hours to a little brown house in the middle of nowhere.

They knock, and a little girl with blonde hair answers the door.

She's only a little over a year older, but she looks so different.

"You found me," she whispers, her blue eyes watering already.

* * *

**A/N: Apparently I decided to write an angst ficlet. This is S.5-AU, where Peter and Olivia reunite and find Etta. I didn't reallyt want to focus on all the Observer-plot stuff. I had this really specific vision in my head for the Peter/Olivia scene, and that's all I can really get down. Review?**


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